


Your Approval Nearly Killed Me

by GalaxyThreads



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Disassociation, Exhaustion, Family, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, One Shot, Overworking, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter trying too hard, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads
Summary: After homecoming, Peter tries really, really hard to make sure that he doesn't disappoint Tony again, but only succeeds in nearly killing himself in the process. (One-shot) (No slash, no smut)
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 498





	Your Approval Nearly Killed Me

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know one of my favorite tropes? Overworked!character. So, here we are. Because life has exhausted me, and I need someone else to tire. :)
> 
> Warnings: Vague death idolization thoughts, minor PTSD, some gore, disassociation. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest. Language is all K.
> 
> Parings: None.
> 
> Everyone please stay safe and healthy! I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on Fanficion.Net under the penname of "LodestarJumper." 
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

* * *

_"I'm going to put an 'out of order' sticker on my forehead and call it a day."_

_-_ Unknown

* * *

His phone buzzes in the middle of class. Peter's long since learned to set it on silence, but the vibration against his thigh makes him jump somewhat, sitting up straighter as he's pulled from day dreaming in half-awareness and dropped back into the middle of class.

Ned shoots him a questioning glance, but Peter ignores it and fumbles with his pencil for a second. He doesn't know what his hand was doing before his phone interrupted his thoughts, but he nearly impales his palm with the sharped point, and the writing utensil goes bouncing across the desk before rolling. Loudly.

He winces in embarrassment, burying his head and ignoring the stares of his peers as he rests two fingers on the pencil to steady it, then reaches his other hand as inconspicuously as he can towards his pocket. His phone buzzes again—that's at least four, which means texts, not calls—and Peter bites on the inside of his cheek.

Ned is beginning to stare, and Peter kicks the side of his foot pointedly.

_Not here. Not now._

Peter bites on the inside of his cheek as he pulls the device from his pocket and slides it between his legs, tapping it twice to turn the screen on. As expected, there's four texts awaiting him, but a fifth buzzes as he's watching. _NOW._ It reads in all caps.

Peter barely withholds a wince, not needing to look at the contact, but knowing who it is anyway. Mr. Stark. He's about the only person Peter texts who uses all-caps frequently. While at the same time managing to be a grammar-freak all at once. Hence, the period at the end of his sentence. Not an exclamation mark, but a period and—

_Peter. Focus._

Peter swipes the screen, opening the messages and tries really hard not to let his stomach fall to his feet.

_Robbery off of 22nd. Armed with stolen tech._

_Three police casualties so far, sixteen hostages._

_Need backup, now. I'm caught up. Join you in a few minutes._

_How soon can you be there?_

_NOW._

A part of him digs his heels and lets out a loud, whiny groan. He doesn't want to deal with a robbery any more than he wants to do the deep spring cleaning May has been pushing for. (Because she's thinking they might have to move again, and they need to clean the apartment or the landlord will throw a fit.)

He doesn't really get a choice in this, though, does he?

People are dying.

Peter's totally fine.

It's not like he needed to hear this lecture for World Civ anyway. (He does. There's a test coming up, and Mrs. Bennet can be a pain in the butt with how she phrases the questions. If you weren't paying attention you're lucky to scrape with anything above a 55. And Peter's grades aren't exactly at a peak level right now.)

But people are dying. And Mr. Stark asked him to be there, so Peter will be there. That's his job. Spider-Man comes first, school second. May will throw a fit, but is she going to complain that at least sixteen people get to go home tonight?

But the test…

Isn't as important.

With a resigned, tired sigh, Peter raises his hand for the second time that week and asks with as blank a face as he can manage, "Can I go to the bathroom?"

000o000

Peter knows his limits.

He does.

People will tell him otherwise, and sometimes the whole universe seems to be protesting against this fact, but Peter knows his limits. He just...pushes past them. A lot. Especially recently, but that's not a problem, because it's not like he's dying or anything. Besides, juggling the Stark Internship, school, Spider-Man, and all that comes in-between doesn't offer a lot of breathing room anyway. Which is also fine. Peter knows his limits. If he needs to stop something, he will. He's not stupid.

Just…

Pushy.

And vomiting blood.

Peter coughs and sputters, trying not to choke, but also doing his best to avoid tasting anything. Blood, bile, and stomach acid are not making for a delightful flavor, and the smell wafting up to him is only making his stomach turn more. His hand is pressed against the wall, shaking, and Peter wonders idly if it's normal to tremble when you stand.

" _Mr. Parker,"_ Karen doesn't sound amused. " _Throwing up blood is a sign of internal bleeding. You need medical assistance."_

"No." He manages to choke out. His voice sounds kinda funny. "No, I'm fine. The bullet hit my leg, remember?"

" _Mr. Parker—"_

"Seriously, Karen, drop it." Peter snaps, but the hardness of his tone is lost as his stomach heaves and he expels something else. It's not even solids anymore, just bile and dry heaving, which is causing his entire body to twitch and shudder, pulling on the bullet lodged inside his left calf.

He chances a glance down and sees that, from the tear where the suit was broken, his skin is split and already puffy. He can see muscle, and that can't be a good sign. What if something starts to spill out from the hole? It's an irrational fear. Peter's been shot before. He knows what does and doesn't come out of bullet holes. For the most part, it's just blood.

Peter swallows compulsively and clenches his fist against the brick, trying to get the spots in his vision to go away.

That hurts.

The wound. Not shaking his head. Well, that hurts too, but the headache is probably his fault in the first place. Not sleeping does that. Or eating. He's hungry, but he can't remember the last time that he ate. That's probably not a good thing. Or...yeah, he doesn't know.

Ugh.

Ow.

" _I'm making contact with medical services. Help is on the way. Try to stay awake, Peter,"_ Karen instructs, but her voice is foggy and far away. Gray and gray and gray. (Gray matter. That man's brain was everywhere and—) The whole world is starting to tip. He doesn't think he'll bleed out—doesn't know if he can after the bite—but he's not sure. His leg hurts. His head. Arm. Everything. His body is a meatsuit of bruises.

"I d'nno," he mutters, unsure what point he's trying to make.

" _You shouldn't have pushed yourself so hard."_ Karen chides. " _Mr. Stark will be most unpleased."_

A well opens in his stomach, taking any peace and calm with it. That's really the problem, here, though, isn't it? Mr. Stark _is_ going to be furious, but it's not going to be concerned furious. Peter screwed up. He got himself injured even though he saved all the civilians and rather than sit down and _explain_ that to Mr. Stark, he went off to find his backpack and lick his wounds in private.

He hurts.

His leg is on fire. And warm. Bullets are hot when they enter your body. The fire of it never ceases to take his breath away.

Peter leans down, trying to touch at or around the wound, stumbling towards his backpack in the process. He just has to get there. Just has to get to it, then he can leave and Karen's EMS can not find out Spider-Man's identity today. Peter just hopes that she's keeping good on her promise and not telling Mr. Stark about the bullet. It's a fault in the coding that Peter found recently. She doesn't _have_ to report injuries unless he directly asks for help.

It's not serious. They'd both know if it was. But Peter's healing factor will make sure he lives. He always lives.

Peter grabs his backpack, and black spots cloud his vision in a desperate attempt to take his consciousness.

000o000

It's not like Peter hates his job. Because he doesn't. Not really. Spider-Man has always been an escape. An out. Peter feels a little to _raw_ as Peter Parker, but Spider-Man is smooth where he is rough. Calm where he would panic. He's everything Peter wants to be, and Peter doesn't hate putting on the mask and playing someone memorable for a few hours.

Honestly.

It's just.

Pushing so hard for so long hurts. Aches in a way that's without words. His very marrow is exhausted, and no amount of the little sleep he gets has yet to ease that burden.

But it's fine.

Really.

(It's not.)

Peter manages to make it back to school during lunch and slides into the seat across from Ned, trying not to show how he's favoring his left leg. The robbers were a little generous with their bullets, and Peter had to play human shield more than once. Everything else was mostly grazes, and the bullet wound isn't bleeding enough to warrant a hospital visit. Probably. According to Karen yes, but he managed to avoid the well-meaning ambulance by a few seconds. They probably weren't expecting someone to be able to clamber up a wall.

By the time that Mr. Stark showed up with the NYPD at his back for the robbery, Peter had pretty much been ready to scream. But Mr. Stark had flipped up his face plate up, looking at the webbed up baddies, his expression easily impressed. "Good work, kid," he'd said.

And that—like the rest of the previous month—is the downfall of everything.

"Whoa." Ned says, eyes raking over Peter for a moment. Self consciously, he rubs a hand through his messy hair. He knows he must have the beginnings of a bruise forming on the left side of his face, and he's not exactly sure what he's going to say happened because he didn't have it when the school day started. "You look like crap."

"Hi to you, too," Peter mutters.

Ned's face softens somewhat, and he rolls his orange towards Peter. It's in that moment that Peter remembers that he didn't pack a lunch, nor did he get a tray. The lunch ladies seem miles away, however, and Peter slumps on the bench, catching the orange. Better than nothing.

"What did you do?" Ned asks.

"Where's MJ?" Peter counters, working arduously on removing the peel. His hands are shaking too badly for him to do more than rake off orange, leaving peal behind in large, white clumps.

"Sick. Caught a pretty bad cold. Apparently she was, and I quote 'working on putting a kidney in the toilet, but one of her choosing', so y'know. Throwing up and stuff. Probably just the stomach flu." Ned says, shoveling a forkful of whatever lunch is supposed to be. Peter thinks it's spaghetti, but it's not the right color and resembles demon mac-n-cheese more.

The sight of the noodles makes his stomach queasy. Brain matter looks a little bit like small noodles. More gray, but still. One of the cops had been shot in the head before he got there, and there was gray matter. People kind of just gloss over that normally, though. When people get shot in the head, they do the blood. Love to do the blood. They never...the lack of brain matter is probably for the best. Less traumatizing for young children.

Peter blinks, throwing himself into the present. "Um. Yeah." He tries to remember what they were talking about before he zoned. MJ. Right. "That sucks," he concedes, "she say when she was going to be back?"

"It's high school, dude," Ned says, somewhat flatly. He waves a fork towards him, and Peter does his best not to flinch. Judging from the slight narrowing of Ned's expression, he doesn't succeed all that well. Regardless, Ned plows forward, "She'll be back tomorrow if she wants to keep her grades above a B till the end of the quarter."

Peter snorts, knowing that feeling all too well. It would be nice to not skip so many days. The thought startles him, he never thought he would think that. All those months grinding his teeth through the hours of school, wishing he could be done with it permanently, and now he wishes he was here _more._

Funny how priorities change.

The orange peel digs sharply into the underside of his nail and Peter winces, pulling his hand back and sticking it between his teeth for a second and biting. It's habit from childhood. Something hurts, cover it in saliva. It's too bad that doesn't work for bullet holes.

Ned laughs quietly, "Are you serious? You have a pain tolerance of, like, Hulk. Did you seriously just get taken out by an orange?"

That stings. He doesn't know why.

 _Bite me,_ a part of Peter wants to mutter, but he holds it back. "It's a hard peel," Peter protests, pulling his thumb out and scraping it along the peel sharply. It finally gives, revealing the fruit underneath. The smell wafts up to him, and Peter thinks that he might be sick.

And for the record—his healing factor sucks. It heals things, not take away the pain. Ned doesn't know that. If Peter has his way, Ned's never going to know that.

An orange, though. It's so...stupid. There's a bullet hole in his leg. It's leaking from where Peter hastily wrapped the bandages he's learned to keep in the bottom of his backpack. He can smell the blood, but doubts anyone else can.

This is fine. Mr. Stark needed him. He can keep pushing. It's not like this is the first time that he's been injured on the job. He just has to grit his teeth, swallow down the urge to ask for a break, and push on. That's what he does.

Ned frowns. "Peter, seriously though. You don't look so good. Maybe you should see the nurse."

 _There's a bullet in my leg. She's not going to calmly tell me to wait on the bed as she gets out a thermometer. I'll end up in the ER for sure. That's the last place I_ can _go._

Peter gives a slightly hysterical laugh. "And tell her what?"

"I don't know, maybe that you got mugged or something," Ned suggests. His brow is beginning to furrow. If Peter doesn't shut him down, the mother henning will begin. That's almost worse than ignorance, because there's really nothing Ned can do anyway.

"I'm okay," Peter says, and tries hard to believe it. "I promise. Just a little tired."

Ned's voice lowers a little as he says, "Dude, the...internship has been pushing you a lot lately. Like a _lot lot."_

 _I know, I'm exhausted._ Peter keeps that to himself. Like he has so many other things recently.

"So?" Peter shrugs, splitting the orange in half and picking out that weird stringy part in the middle. "It's not like it's not needed. I'm helping people. That's the important thing."

"You're kind of burning a candle at both ends here."

Peter's fingers still on the orange. The analogy fits and doesn't. He grits his teeth and tries to smile, but it feels like he's stretching his skin. His forming bruise aches at the sudden movement. "Again, so?"

Ned's expression flickers.

Peter returns to the orange. He eats it despite the fact that it turns his stomach—most citrus things have since the bite (he looked it up once, apparently spiders hate citrus, so there's that)—but he's starving and can't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't in a package.

They don't talk for the rest of lunch.

000o000

Peter goes home. The homework assignments push and pull at his thoughts, listing out all the time it will take to research and complete them. The end of quarter three is rapidly approaching, which has given most of his teachers the excuse they were looking for to assign a big project. Peter has learned how to dread the end of quarters once he knew what they were.

May isn't back yet, but that's not too much of a surprise. Peter dumps his backpack on the couch, fully intending to return to it, and slips into the bathroom. The bullet landed in his calf, and the wound already has fresh skin, sealing the wound closed. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and wishes for a long moment that his healing factor didn't suck so much. People always praise them. It's like they forget the hassle.

Peter's just lucky he hasn't had a large bone—like his femur or forearm—break and he hasn't been able to get them back into place. They would've healed disformed, because his healing factor is considerate like that.

Peter limps to his room and finds the x-acto knife he used to use to cut open the wiring in computers, and grabs a lighter from the camping kit May hasn't touched since Ben died. Peter returns to the bathroom, sits down on the toilet lid and lifts his leg up to rest across his knees.

Holding the knife and lighter in either hand, Peter suddenly and deeply wishes that he didn't know how to perform surgery on himself. The desire to be _normal_ washes through him so intensely that it hurts.

Maybe this would be a little better if he had someone else doing the bullet removing, but the one time he asked May she cried through most of it then threw up afterwards. He hasn't asked since. It's not like he wasn't taking care of them by himself before she knew about his alter ego anyway.

Peter stuffs a clean sock into his mouth and grinds his teeth down deeply into it before flicking the knife open, making sure the tweezers are nearby, and turns on the lighter.

Fifteen minutes later, his leg is wrapped, the blood cleaned up from the bathroom, and Peter is sitting on the couch trying not to pass out as he works on math. The numbers are blurring together in a way that makes no sense whatsoever, but he doesn't have another time to do this. Ever since Mr. Stark started supporting his role with Spider-Man instead of ignoring it, then dragging his feet, things have been different.

He's been treating Peter less like a little kid just learning how to play with Legos, and more like someone who actually has experience in the hero-ing department. The missions started about three weeks ago. And they've...they've been not a weight—never, no, not when there are people to save and a Avenger to impress—but...maybe a little bit heavy. A push on time that he doesn't really have.

It's...like that sort-of-meme-triangle.

Peter remembers only vaguely what he and Ned were talking about when Ned had suddenly flipped open his phone and showed Peter the triangle. Each point had a label, which were respectively: _sleep, social life, good grades._ Then underneath was the declaration: Pick two.

They'd laughed, because it was true in a gruesomely High School sort of way and that was that. It was fleeting, as most memes (or sort-of memes) are, but for some reason this one stuck with him. And kept sticking. Especially after the fiasco of homecoming, and then everything that followed.

 _Spider-Man, sleep, good grades, Mr. Stark's approval, social life._ That's his five-point star. His life.

And Peter gets to pick only two on average, possibly three.

And he knows fully which ones are a priority, and which ones can be discarded on a whim. And it's not like he hates his job. He doesn't. He really doesn't. He doesn't...whoa. The page comes closer to his eyes than he was expecting before his head smacks against it. Peter snaps upright, startled, and realizes with a slight jolt that he blacked out and nearly impaled his eye with a friggin' pencil.

Maybe he should keep them a little duller if this is going to become a routine problem.

Peter stands up and hobbles to the sink, getting a glass of water and trying to clear the fuzzy spots in his vision. This is nothing. Last week, he got knifed in the stomach and had to stay home from school pretending he had a migraine. May would have freaked if she'd known he was trying not to bleed out. And it's not like he entirely lied.

He did have a migraine. Just...a migraine, _and_ a stab wound. But that was last week, and beyond giving little twinges of pain now, Peter's totally fine. It's just, the missions are layering on top of each other, like the public suddenly lost the ability to care for itself, and he and Mr. Stark are the only babysitters available. Even though there is an entire police force, and the ones in the surrounding States if need be. Or, y'know, the national guard.

But Peter's not complaining.

Never complaining.

So he sits down and struggles through his math homework until May gets home. She looks a little worn, and all thoughts of asking for help with the bullet or the research, or telling her that Mr. Stark pulled him out of school again so they need another excuse, vanishes just as quickly. His aunt looks near tears, and Peter's stomach squirms with discomfort and sympathy at the sight.

He warms up some frozen food—at this point, labels mean nothing—gets her something from the emergency chocolate stash she keeps in her closet, and they sit down to watch an episode from BBC's Merlin.

His right leg bounces the entire time, his brain mentally counting down the time he's wasting. He should be doing school. He never knows when the next mission is going to be. Or when he'll need to sleep. Or when someone else is going to need him again. (He always has to be ready for that. He hates it. He feels awful about it, because it's his _job_ to help people—and freakin' human decency—but it just...exhausting. That it's always him and _only_ him.)

Peter forces himself to focus, though, if not on the episode then on May, who is looking marginally better. She even throws in a side comment about how attractive Gwaine is, which Peter considers a half-win. Peter tries to somewhat work on his English homework, but writing an essay with the distracting noise of sudden laughter or just _noise_ from the TV proves too much for his brain to handle.

Peter helps May into bed after that, turning off the light as he leaves the room, but stopping dead as she murmurs tiredly, "I smell blood. Are you okay, Peter?"

His body rushes cold. The awful smell of burning skin from the lighter lingers in his nose, threatening to make him expel whatever they ate for dinner. He can't remember. It wasn't even two hours ago, and he honestly cannot remember what they ate. That's probably not a good sign. Whatever.

"Um." He scrambles for a believable lie. "Yeah. I'm okay. Probably just from my nose. Y'know, when I ran it into the doorframe earlier."

It's what he'd blurted out when May asked about his face. He doesn't need to lie anymore. He could've just told her that a robber pistol whipped him, but lies are instinctive when it comes to Spider-Man, even after all this time, and he can't help it. Even if it does make his stomach cramp with guilt and self disgust.

"It bled." Peter adds after a second. May's head tilts like she's skeptical of the answer, but Peter licks his lips and directs her focus elsewhere. "I'm going to go on patrol for a little bit. I'll try and be back before eleven."

"Okay," May sounds a little sluggish, sleep tugging at her eyelids. "I don't think I'm going to make waiting up tonight, baby. Sorry."

"That's okay," Peter assures. _You didn't wait up for me for eight months. I can last one night. "_ I'll see you in the morning."

"Call me if you run into any problems?"

No.

"Okay."

"I love you Peter. Thank you, for tonight." May says. There's a sincerity in her voice that softens the hard edges a little. He nods.

"Good night, May."

"Night."

Peter gets home a little after midnight. He's panting and sick to his stomach, but only a little bruised rather than so sore he can barely breathe. The training Mr. Stark every weekend has been offering must be helping, he thinks dizzily. It's the last conscious thought he remembers having before he passes out.

000o000

There's a pop quiz in Chem, because that's just his luck, and he can't concentrate for the life of him. The pain makes it really hard. He moves his left food somewhat and the jab of fire makes his breath hitch. He's limping badly and he knows it, but the day _after_ the initial injury is always the worst when it comes to the healing factor. It's balance. Too much water can kill you. Too much oxygen can, too. Too much healing in one spot aches like receiving the injury all over again.

His teacher, Mr. Swenson, asks him to stay behind after class.

Which sucks. Because Peter doesn't really have time to fall behind in World Civ, and he might miss the instrumental information he needs to know for that stupid test next Tuesday—always the middle of the week with her, like the thought of giving them until Friday to prep physically disgusts her—and he _cannot fail that class._

The stupid heart-to-heart that's coming can wait.

But it doesn't.

Mr. Swenson's head is tilted slightly, staring at Peter's face. His doorframe story has, for the most part, held without a question. People started adjusting to how "clumsy" he is a long time ago. "Peter," Mr. Swenson always calls them by their first names, it makes Peter's insides squirm for some reason. "I've noticed that you've had a hard time concentrating in my class recently. I know there was that whole stint at the beginning of the year that the councilor said spawned from your uncle's death, but this seems to be something else. Are you okay?"

Well meaning bystanders drive him crazy.

(They're always the ones that nearly get themselves—or _do—_ killed.)

Peter draws together a frayed smile. "Yeah. I've just been having problems with insomnia," not totally a lie. But does it really count when he doesn't go to bed until two AM and gets up at four because of nightmares? "It's made it hard to concentrate."

"Hm," Mr. Swenson's lips downturn, "well. I'm sorry. Have you tried taking melatonin?"

And add drug addict to the list of issues, no thank you. Yes. He knows logically that melatonin isn't addictive, but that doesn't really help appease him.

"No. That's something I haven't tried," Peter says honestly, "maybe I should give it a go. Thanks."

He worms and wiggles his way through the rest of the conversation, seeming to leave Mr. Swenson content with the state of his wellbeing. It seems like everyone is asking over it these days, and he can't figure out why.

He's fine. Completely. Better than fine. The trust that Mr. Stark has been putting in him lately—that's been awesome. He's being treated like an actual hero now, and the police have finally stopped shooting at him because Iron Man is backing him, so that's cool, too.

Really. He's okay.

But Peter hasn't looked in a mirror since last Tuesday, so he's not sure he's one to judge.

000o000

MJ still isn't at school. Peter doesn't have a lot of classes with her, but they usually make a point to sit together at lunch, or at least join up before school. Neither of those things happen. Peter checks his messages and doesn't see anything from her, so he sends her a quick _U Okay?_ and shuffles after Ned in the lunch line.

The lunch ladies are either too happy or extremely grumpy, but that's normal and a relief.

The food tastes like ash, and the bottomless pit that has become his stomach isn't satisfied with the meager meal. Ned picks through his like it's becoming Darwinism, and they talk about dull stuff like what prompt they chose for the English essay.

His phone buzzes against his left leg, and Peter bites down so sharply on his tongue in pain blood immediately pools into his mouth. Despite his best efforts, a slight kneeing noise escapes him anyway. The metallic tastes makes him gag, and Peter tries to blink the sudden tears out of his eyes. He always puts his phone into his left pocket by habit. He hadn't even thought to _not_ to that today.

But a buzz means a text. _He hates getting texted._ Texting means someone needs him, and Peter can barely move right now. He doesn't want to open his phone. He doesn't want to see. Doesn't want to know. _Don't. Don't. Don't._

_I can't. I can't. I can't—_

If Mr. Stark needs him, he has to. He'll just swallow down his pain like water and push through. He's done it before. Peter knows his limits. (Knows how to push past them like some sort of sick game.) Peter will be fine.

He reaches for his phone, ignoring Ned's puzzled glance, and flips it open.

MJ. Relief drops through him like a stone, and he squirms in discomfort at the realization. He likes his job. He shouldn't dread it. He doesn't even know when this started. Mr. Stark asking him on mission isn't a burden. It's an honor. ( _But he wishes there was time to recuperate. To do homework. To—)_

He reads MJ's text: _No._

"Who's that?" Ned questions, then, with far less enthusiasm than he would have asked three—four? What is it now?—weeks ago, guesses, "Internship?"

"No." Peter says, and scowls somewhat on seeing Ned's relief. _Hypocrite_ a part of him sing-songs in the back of his mind. "It's MJ."

 _What's up?_ He texts back.

MJ only takes a second. _Still vomiting my guts up._ There's a pause before she sends him a sick emoji. Peter's brow furrows, wondering if she's used that one a lot over the last couple days. He doesn't know where to find it in the scroll of characters that quickly.

 _Sorry._ He answers. _U want me to swing by ltr?_

An awful, quiet part of him hopes she'll say no.

MJ pauses. _Might be contagius._ A second, then: _*Contagious._

Peter huffs lightly, and almost spells out, _super immune system. I'm fine._ He's already typing it before he realizes she doesn't know about other him, and back tracks. Instead he sends, _I'll take my chances. U have homewrk yet?_

MJ texts him back a crying emoji, which could mean about anything, but he's guessing is a yes.

Well. He'll just...have to find time to start that English essay later. MJ needs him. She comes first, anyway. Peter blows out a resigned breath between his teeth and carefully inserts his phone into his right pocket, rubbing subconsciously at the top of his left knee.

He shifts his leg on accident, which jolts the tender wound, and he bites back another gasp.

"You have MJ's homework?" Peter asks Ned, like he's not struggling to breathe.

"Uh, yeah," Ned answers after a second. He's still watching Peter weirdly. "You gonna take it to her?"

He breathes in steadily. He knows pain. He can work through pain. Just turn it into a sense, not an overwhelming master. "Think so," Peter answers, "she's still sick. Didn't even come today."

"I know," Ned says, sounding somewhat amazed. "If she's not here Monday, I betcha she's in the hospital. It's the only reason you could honestly keep someone from panicking about _not_ being here if they care about their grades as much as she does."

Peter nods. He's swallowing blood. That's gross. It's runny, like water, but metallic, like poison.

He needs to finish (start) that essay. And see if May's feeling better today. He didn't get the chance to see her before he left for school. He should also probably see if his leg is infected, just so he knows. It's not like his healing factor won't take care of that, too, but it's always good to know. At least it's not bleeding anymore. Blood takes forever to get out of clothing, even if you _do_ use cold water.

000o000

MJ looks like crap, to put it mildly. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hair pulled out of her face in a ponytail. She's still in PJ's and burrowed beneath a hoard of blankets with at least sixteen empty water bottles on the nightstand next to her bed. There's an ice pack on her forehead, and it shadows her already red-tinged eyes, making her look like a plague victim.

She looks up from her phone—plugged into the charger, so it has infinite battery life, at least until she rolls over—and gives a tired half-smile. "Hey," she says, her voice an octave deeper and slightly hoarse. Without any prompting, she says, "You look worse than me, Parker. What have you been _doing?"_

He should probably find a mirror.

Just so he knows.

This is getting ridiculous. _He's fine._ Does he have to spell that out for everyone?

Peter lifts a hand to the bruise on his face for a second, and does his best to hide his limp as he walks into her room. He grabs the chair from her desk and pulls it over to the bed, straddling it as he dumps his backpack onto the mattress and begins to unzip it. "Well, I lost a fight to a doorframe." He says, sticking to the same stupid lie he's told everyone.

MJ snorts, rubbing a hand over her face. She, like everyone else, doesn't seem to question it.

It's a good thing that Mr. Stark only sees him in a mask. He's pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to get lies past him. Not right now, anyway. With his leg the way it is. (He doesn't know _what_ he's going to do about training tomorrow. He can't fight with this leg, even if the wound will mostly be tender skin. Most people take three weeks on average to heal from a bullet. His best time has been four days before he was top shape again.)

"I didn't ask about the _bruise,_ you idiot," MJ chides, "I was asking what happened to _you._ I haven't been to school in what? Three days? You already looked like crap. Now you look like someone took your little pile of crap and ran you over a few times."

Peter's eyebrow jolts up despite himself.

MJ makes a face. "Bite me. I'm sick. I nearly puked up a kidney yesterday. Leave me alone."

Peter rolls his eyes fondly and sets the homework on the bed, then a pile of copied notes. He took some of Ned's, too, because he's kept winking in and out of classes since the bullet. "Here, this is everything I pulled together from me and Ned. I think it should be enough to cover everything, except maybe World Civ. Is your test on Tuesday, too?"

"Yep." MJ looks thrilled.

Peter smirks lightly, and opens his mouth when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. His entire body stiffens with dread. That's not enough. An all-consuming, gut wrenching horror. _No, no, no, no, no, no—_

Something must show on his face, because MJ suddenly looks far less interested in going over the notes she grabbed and instead on him. Peter relaxes his facial muscles and pulls his phone from his pocket as it continues to buzz with text notifications.

He can't believe there was ever a time that he wanted this.

 _I just wanted to know when the next mission was,_ Peter remembers telling Happy. Remembers saying it more than once in the voicemails he left Happy before homecoming. When patrolling didn't feel like overexertion on most days, and a notification from anyone on the Avenger's side would have been a God-given gift.

Peter looks at the messages.

_Mess in Central Prk. Police asking for backup._

_Bad timing I know. Sorry._

_Can you make it?_

He normally always asks, like he honestly expects Peter will say anything but yes. Like they both know it isn't rhetorical. Like Peter isn't fully aware that Tony has been trying to ease the NYPD's distrust of him by having him work menial missions, too, like this one. Just so they can get used to each other. It hasn't really helped. Peter still stiffens whenever he sees a police cruiser, and sometimes someone suggesting they call 911 after he rescues them makes his insides turn to ice.

He just wants to sit here and talk with MJ. Work on homework. Get started on that English paper.

_He doesn't want to—_

Suck it up, Parker. Life isn't about what we _want._

Peter closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks MJ in the eyes. He can already see the hurt understanding brewing there, and it makes his insides churn with guilt. _When,_ he wonders almost desperately, _when do I get to come first?_

_Selfish, selfish, selfish…_

"I gotta go." He scrambles for a lie, "May left her keys in the apartment and needs me to come let her in. Sorry."

MJ sighs, coughing wetly. "It's okay. Just...visit me soon, okay, loser?"

He nods and resists the sudden urge to brush a stray strand of her sweaty curls from her face. Even looking a little above death, she's beautiful. It makes him feel slightly embarrassed. Peter clenches his fists around the rim of the chair then slowly staggers up to his feet. His leg throbs, his vision does that weird tunnel-thing that means he's close to passing out, but he pushes through.

Peter grabs his backpack.

"I'll try and be back soon." Peter promises, and gives her a half smile. It feels as false and tired as he does. He leaves anyway.

000o000

He botches it. Completely and utterly.

Had he been at full health, it would have been fine. No bullet wounds, not healing from previous injuries over the last few weeks, maybe slept and ate as much as he needs to live, not just survive. But Peter didn't realize how much he relies on his feet more than his hands until he only has use of one. Again with the stupid it hurts worse the second day thing. He would have been fine tomorrow, but not today.

He gets two cops shot because he wasn't fast enough, himself three gashes leaking down his chest and what he suspects is a broken wrist. The bad guys—a group of wanna-be-bombers—get away. The locations of their bombs remain unknown because this was supposed to be a _capture_ not a _run-off._ (And it would have been nice if someone told him that, but no one explained. Not Mr. Stark, not the NYPD. Not that he's too surprised at the latter, they're always crypt with him. Probably has something to do with the ever-present warrant.)

But still. Bombers lose, police hurt, and Peter just about in handcuffs for the whole debacle.

He only gets away because he remembers he has web fluid at the last second, and he crumples onto a nearby rooftop, trying not to sob. Karen is offline—sometimes he has to do that if he wants to focus. She's supposed to help, but Peter still isn't used to a co-pilot, even after nearly five months. He's alone.

And it's a relief.

There's no one here pressing for his attention. No one here to _need_ him. Peter is so tired of being needed. There's a difference between being wanted and needed. Peter hadn't really understood that until recently.

"I can't," Peter whispers into the snow-dusted rooftop. It's cold, and he's shivering, but he doesn't care. "I can't, I can't, I can't,"

He slams a fist into the rooftop, and feels himself start to cry. It's humiliating, but he's bleeding, his leg throbs, and one of the police officers may never go home. The EMS weren't confident when they arrived. Peter hates _failing_ everyone like this. They need him, and he fails them. Over and over.

He's still murmuring the two words like he needs them to breathe.

Peter yanks off his mask and tries to breathe, but it's erratic and he knows he's starting to panic. The cold air bites into his cheeks, a reminder that he's alive, even if he doesn't want it. This is too much. He doesn't have time to break down.

He should go start that stupid paper so he can start prepping for the World Civ test. He won't have tomorrow if Mr. Stark still wants to do training—his stomach drops at the thought, and his fresh wounds ache in reminder of pain—and he doesn't know if he can cramp it all into Sunday.

Isn't there some sort of Spanish assignment that he's forgetting?

Time is slipping. He doesn't know how to stop it.

 _Stop needing me,_ he begs desperately, _stop it._

"God, please," he whispers. Begs. He doesn't even know for what. _This is too much,_ he thinks wildly. _I hurt. This is too much. There's so much pain. This is too—_

000o000

He honest-to-God can't get out of bed the next morning. His vision goes white around the edges and his body firmly says _no._ He ends up having to claim migraine excuse to Mr. Stark and cancel training. Not that he's even sure if it was still on. Mr. Stark hadn't texted him to let him know what he thought about the mess of Central Park.

Part of Peter is afraid to know.

It's a little past ten when May enters the room after softly knocking on the door. She's not wearing glasses, and her hair is strung up. Wasn't...date, wasn't it? With some guy from work. He's blond and didn't give Peter any vibes except boring.

"Hey, it's ten. You okay?" May asks.

_My chest is on fire. My leg is throbbing. I think I lost too much blood._

"Little tired," Peter submits. His throat is raspy. He can't remember if he drunk water after stitching up his chest. He should probably eat something. His spider sense really only works if he's semi-functional. After that it's more like belated warning system, or it spikes at everything and nothing like a whiny child pushing a button to get his attention.

The joys of being enhanced.

"You sure? You're not looking so hot. Maybe you're coming down with something." May reaches out a hand to lay on his forehead. It's warm. He's cold.

Peter blinks, exhausted. He wants to open his mouth and ask her to stay, but he's not sure if he's allowed to. May's been so tender since Ben. To ask anything of her now always makes his insides squirm with guilt.

"Migraine." Peter mumbles. Go-to excuse now. When all else fails, no one tests the might of a migraine.

May's lips twist with sympathy. "Yeah. I heard. Stark wanted to double check with me to make sure you weren't hiding an injury or anything," she grins, and Peter forces himself to follow. No. No hidden injuries here. None at all. "I told him that you wouldn't do that anymore."

Guilt claws at his insides.

No.

Never.

May frowns, "You really don't look good. Do you want to go a doctor?"

No doctors. He'll be a medical phenomenon with how fast he can recover from things. He doesn't want to be poked and prodded. Or studied. Or even for the medical community to know of his existence.

"It's bad enough to warrant an ER?" Peter mumbles. He's a little curious, mostly just wants to roll on his side and go back to sleep. Then not wake up. But he's not going to emphasize that part. _Stop needing me, stop needing me, stop needing me—_

"Maybe. You haven't looked this bad in a while. Are you sick?" May asks.

He shakes his head. "Haven't been since the bite."

May's lips twitch slightly, as they always do when he brings up anything regarding Spider-Man. It's not disgust, not disappointment. Peter's never been able to pin-point what it means. It bothers him. A continuous puzzle that offers him no clues for a solution.

"Huh. Okay." May brushes hair from his forehead. "Do you think you'll be okay on your own for a bit? I have a date, but if you want me to stay, we can reschedule. It's just a lunch."

She deserves to be happy. More than Peter needs comfort.

He sighs. "No, I'll be okay. I'll call if it gets too bad."

May nods at the compromise, and presses a kiss to his forehead. "You better."

She leaves.

The pain gets worse. To the point that he has to bite into his pillow because he's afraid he'll bite of his own tongue. Medication doesn't help. Nothing helps. And Peter doesn't call.

Tony texts him, but Peter's too afraid of what he'll say to even look at it.

000o000

He sleeps through the rest of Saturday, and hazily writes down something he hopes is passable for English. The essay is mostly crap, but he's too tired to care. He woke up on Sunday in this sort of _haze._ It's hard to describe, like he's here, but isn't. Almost like he's floating above his head, observing himself, yanking on strings sometimes.

Peter jabs himself with a pencil, trying to see if it will help, but he doesn't really feel the pain.

Monday comes, and with it the frantic scramble of information overload. He's too hungry, too tired, in too much pain to focus on much. It really doesn't help that he turns on his phone only to see news articles about the mess in Central Park. People are angry. That one cop didn't survive. People are blaming him.

There's ten unanswered, unlooked at texts from Tony sitting in his phone like a heavy weight now.

He can't.

He won't.

He _can't._

Rapid texts usually mean missions because of details, but these are just one at a time, spaced between hours. Nothing he has to look at right now. It makes him feel guilty, though, like he's some sort of criminal for not wanting to help. Helping is his _job._ That's what he does.

Ned keeps kicking the side of his foot to try and help him focus. It always feels like he's taking a plunge into reality before he's sucked back out again. Monday is just...weird. The best word he has for it is floaty.

MJ still isn't in school.

Ned calls her during lunch, and they learn she was admitted to the hospital for pneumonia on Sunday night. Peter winces in sympathy. He had pneumonia when he was about ten, it sucked. Once the antibiotics are in you it's definitely better, but the waiting game is awful, and recovery even more so.

Peter makes a plan to visit her after school. He should do more studying for the World Civ exam tomorrow, and text Mr. Stark back, but Peter's brain feels like it's shutting down. He could handle all of this at the beginning, but time has worn on him. _Stop needing me, stop needing me, stop—_

He can't do the five-point star anymore. He can't choose only two. It's driving him insane.

Peter plays team captain for the decathlon club in MJ's absence, and dodges Flash's lethal stare as he ducks out of the school and any other extracurriculars he doesn't have to visit MJ.

His phone buzzes. Mr. Stark again. And two from Happy now.

Dread coils inside him tight like a spring. They keep poking, he's going to snap and it's going to be _nasty._

The hospital smells like antiseptic, tears, and sweat. Peter stays for a brief conversation he can barely remember before MJ falls asleep. Her mom asks Peter if he's okay, and Peter gives her a wide smile and asks why he wouldn't be.

 _I'm falling apart,_ he wants to say, _please help me._

Missions are important. Spider-Man is important. School. All those things. But Peter just wants to eat, then sleep. Then plug his ears and scream _I don't want to be needed anymore._

He goes home.

He doesn't remember how he got there, and it frightens him. He doesn't know if it was by cab, webs, subway, if he walked, bus, something. He just blinks then he's home, rubbing at his aching chest, the bruising and his throbbing wrist he's pretty sure he didn't set right.

His leg aches.

Peter falls asleep on the ground next to his bed, his plan of two more hours of studying before a quick patrol forgotten into the floor.

000o000

He wakes up with a blanket over his back, and a pillow under his head. May's work, he'd guess. Mostly cause he has no memory of doing it himself. Not that it means much, the memory gaps are starting to get bigger and more frequent. By this point, it wouldn't surprise him.

Test. Test. Test.

He hurts. His brain aches. His body is on fire.

Thirty-six unread messages from Tony. Fifteen from Happy. Three from an unknown number.

Peter gets up. He pulls on a jacket slowly, agony fueling every movement. He's stiff and the pain doesn't seem to be getting better. He's hungry. He's thirsty. And tired. And he doesn't want to be needed anymore. _Please let this stop, please let this—_

But he's Spider-Man. Being needed is what happens.

And that's fine. (Always fine. Never not fine.)

Peter's too nauseous to eat anything, but drinks a lot of water. He should have been drinking more, he realizes belatedly, because you need it after losing a lot of blood. He's been really thirsty the last few days. That's probably why. Blood likes water. Peter doesn't like bloody water.

He thinks he sees May, but he doesn't know. Just grabs his backpack and leaves for school.

He staggers. Hobbles. The world grays. (Gray like the brain. Like the blood and the noodles.)

His phone buzzes.

Peter steps into the building and walks through it. The world doesn't feel connected to him. He feels like an outside observer, looking in, but never really present. Never _here._ Always far away and wandering, and _oh my gosh is it possible to live through his much pain?_

Peter's head is clogged. He wishes he could find the stupid plug, just so he could drain it all out and start over.

Peter takes the test in World Civ, and blurs through most of his other classes. Ned tries to tell him something through lunch, but Peter just puts his head down on his arms and dozes. He doesn't sleep, but he's not awake either.

His phone buzzes.

_Don't need me. Don't._

Sometimes between classes, Flash's face leans into his. He says something, but Peter's ears really stopped working yesterday. Everything now is murky. Flash keeps talking, and his face keeps getting more twisted in anger. So much anger. This feels so weird. He thinks he's supposed to be intimidated, but he's just too tired.

Flash's face is changing, going more pale. He looks concerned. Less angry.

Peter's hungry.

He's tired.

His phone buzzes.

Peter pulls it from his pocket and throws it across the room. It smashes against the hall wall, over people's heads. Peter doesn't see the debris. Or if there is any. People stop and look at him, eyes wide. More talking.

Peter's hazy. He turns to Flash. "I don't feel right." He admits, at last, and there's something relieving about that.

_I don't feel right._

_I don't._

His vision goes dark, and Peter feels himself start to topple forward. His consciousness leaves him before he hits the ground. And it's kinda funny, because Peter swears that someone catches him first, but the only person that would have been is Flash.

000o000

_Hiss. Release. Hiss. Release. Hiss—_

"—how bad the infection's gotten?"

"He could have died. He should be dead—"

_Hiss. Release. Hiss._

Exhaustion.

Sleep.

"—previous fractures of broken bones. Recent—"

"—Said something about the missions, I would have—"

_Hiss. Release. Hiss._

_Don't need me anymore. Please, please, please._

"—Kill the idiot."

"—talking with him would be good, Mr. Stark. Brain activity seems to respond to your voice—"

_Hiss._

_Release._

"—I swear, kid, I won't do that again. I thought you'd said no. Why did you never say no?"

_You needed me. Everyone needed me. I could only say yes. Always yes. Never no. Never, never, never._

_Hiss._

_Release..._

000o000

When Peter's consciousness finally settles, rather than dragging in and out like he's trying to shift back and forth between it and the void, he aches. A deep, bodily ache that he's grown too familiar with since Spider-Man. His marrow hurts. Every breath is a struggle, but the hiss of the oxygen machine he remembers vaguely from his stints into the real world is gone. He's breathing on his own.

A hand is rubbing on the inside of his right wrist—his other is casted—and he's too exhausted to tense at it. It's not awfully familiar, almost like from a dream, but his spider sense is calm, and despite how much of a whiny brat it can be, he trusts it with his life. If he were in danger here, he'd know. Mostly he just feels...tired.

Peter blink hazily, trying to get his gaze to focus. The room is dimmed, but he still recognizes the tiled ceiling as a hospital. Not one he's been in before, but they all have the same basic layout. Peter blinks in confusion, trying to figure out how he got here.

Things are a mess.

The five point star got out of hand…?

No.

Didn't...didn't he pass out in front of Flash?

Peter nearly groans. He'll never hear the end of that.

His eyes flit across the room for a moment, spying May's purse sitting alone on beside a chair, along with her laptop. He can't find her, but it's obvious she's been here, and that puts some ease into the last lingering dregs of his panic.

There's a Get Well Soon balloon haunting the far corner, and Peter inwardly winces. He has only bad memories of those. There's a few cards next to May's laptop. Peter wonders how long he's been here. Or where "here" is.

The hand continues to rub, and Peter realizes that he's not alone. If it's not May, then who…?

Peter, with an embarrassing amount of effort, rolls his head towards his left. Above the IV line sticking from the inside of his wrist is the hand. He follows it up to the face and jerks somewhat in surprise.

"Whoa, hey, hey," Mr. Stark says, immediately tightening his grip somewhat and shifting forward on the seat he was perched in. The laptop balanced precariously on his legs is set aside onto the floor as Mr. Stark shifts so they can make eye contact. "Just relax. I think if your blood pressure spikes anymore, the doctor's might personally assassinate me."

There's something bitter in his voice.

Peter's tired. He doesn't want to deal with it.

He swallows compulsively, and realizes how dry his throat is. Mr. Stark is suddenly producing a plastic cup of water, and gently lifts it to Peter's lips. He's tempted to drink until he throws up—which wont take much effort—but Mr. Stark pulls it back before that option really settles in his mind.

The cup returns to the void. Peter's too tried to follow it.

"Mr.—Mr. Stark," his voice sounds exhausted. His tongue feels it. Weighted and heavy. "What are you doing here?"

Mr. Stark's expression twitches. His eyes narrow somewhat, but the first thing that pops into his mind is obviously not what he says. "What do you mean? Why _wouldn't_ I be here?"

Peter's brow furrows. He doesn't understand. Maybe _Mr. Stark_ doesn't understand. "I'm...I'm not Spider-Man right now…"

Mr. Stark's face does that twitch-thing again. Almost like the face May makes whenever he mentions Spider-Man. It's exhausting. He's so tired of trying to make sense of the people around him. Mr. Stark gives his arm a squeeze, but Peter doesn't know if it's a reaction or a choice. "Peter," Mr. Stark sighs, jaw clenching somewhat. "Why would I care that you're not Spider-Man?"

Peter blinks. "Because…"

Because Mr. Stark only contacts him about Spider-Man.

Because Mr. Stark contacts him about missions.

Mr. Stark is kind of his boss. Not his friend. Not his fath...nothing more than that.

Mr. Stark rubs a hand over his face, looking worn and tired. He mutters something under his breath that Peter doesn't catch and suspects he doesn't want to. "You are an idiot," Mr. Stark declares, "I am here for Peter Parker."

Peter Parker.

 _Why_ would he be here for Peter Parker? Peter blinks again. "I don't…" his voice sounds lost. It's humiliating.

Mr. Stark begins to rub his thumb absently over Peter's skin again. "Listen. You nearly died, okay? Twice. They had to restart your heart—and you wanna know why? Acute exhaustion. You wore yourself to the bone, kid. Your heart was failing and your organs shutting down. Funny, though. The _multiple_ previous bullet wounds over the last two weeks haven't helped, nor the giant cuts on your chest from where they suspect you were thrown threw a window."

Peter winces.

Mr. Stark only looks tired. "There's more. I could keep going, but I think you get my point. Peter," his name, spoken like it's either a gift or a curse, "I'm sorry. This one's on me."

He opens his mouth, but Mr. Stark lifts up a hand. " _Don't..._ don't."

Mr. Stark looks at the edge of the hospital bed, and Peter listens to the machines slowly spelling out his existence around them. Finally, when the silence grows too much, Peter says, "It's not you. It was me. I just...I wanted to prove that I could, so badly, I just...just didn't see how bad it was getting, I guess."

"You must have felt it. Peter, everyone says that you've looked like death the last few weeks." Mr. Stark interrupts. "Have you looked in a mirror recently?"

Peter wets his lips, then admits softly, "No."

Mr. Stark seems a little indignant, yanking his phone out with one hand and flipping to the camera app. Then, making sure it's on front-facing, he lifts it up above Peter in a sort-of mirror. Peter squints into it, the light making his brain hurt, then feels his blood drain somewhat.

He's pale. Like bloodloss-ghost pale. His eyes are red, ringed, and there's healing bruises marring one side of his face. His lips are chapped, split, and washed out. His cheekbones are sticking out, making him look waxy and thin. His eyes are sunken.

He looks...there aren't even words.

"Oh." Peter breathes out.

Mr. Stark pulls the phone away. "'Oh'," he mimics sarcastically. "That's all you got for me?"

"What do you want me to say?" Peter asks, suddenly desperate. "I don't want you to be angry with me. I just wanted...I just wanted you to be proud. To show that you didn't make a bad choice."

Mr. Stark's expression grows pained. He rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry. I just...I'm worried, and it's not coming out the way I want it to. Let me get one thing clear: I _am_ proud of you, kid. But not because you worked yourself nearly to death trying to prove it to me. That horrifies me. I never wanted…"

"You said that the missions—"

"I thought you would say no." Mr. Stark interrupts. "I honest-to-God thought that if you didn't have the time, you would say no and let me handle it. There was only, what? That one last week were we both showed up?"

Peter gives a hesitant nod.

"That's the only one I would have pushed for. Everything else…" Mr. Stark shakes his head, "You know what I thought to myself recently? 'Man that kid has some stamina, look at him. Not even winded.' And you know what had just happened? You. Shot. And not telling anyone. Never again. I swear to you, Peter Benjamin Parker, if you are ever injured bad enough to warrant normal people going to the hospital, and you don't tell me, I will murder you. Karen's been updated. She's now required to report all injuries to me."

Peter sours a little. "Great."

"Yeah. _Acute exhaustion."_ Mr. Stark reminds.

Peter shakes his head a little, "I don't...but I thought that I had to say yes. I thought when you were asking, it was more like...rhetorical, you know?"

"It never was." Mr. Stark sighs. "I was just trying to help mend you and the NYPD's relationship a little. When I saw something they were over their heads for, I called you in. I know I was pushing it, but you seemed to be handling it. I guess a mask hides more than your identity, though."

"Yeah." Peter agrees quietly.

"I'm sorry, Peter." Mr. Stark's voice is even softer. "I just wish I'd seen what I was doing so I could've stopped it sooner. You need rest. You're tired. You can sleep. I'll be here when you wake up again, I promise."

Peter nods sluggishly.

As he drifts, he remembers with suddenly clarity the night that Peter had arrived in the Compound for training, only to have Mr. Stark cancel it and take him down to the lab. He'd let him touch almost everything, and Peter had ended up throwing a ball between himself and U as he rambled on about nothing for the better part of two hours.

Mr. Stark kept shooting him these fond smiles, like Peter simply talking was enough.

Mr. Stark listened to his voicemails. The one's he left for Happy. For months. They'd been connecting, even if he hadn't known it then.

Maybe...maybe it isn't so much of a surprise that he came for Peter, not Spider-Man, after all. Just as he's about to slip off, he feels lips brush against his forehead, and he mutters a sleepy, "Dad," under his breath before he can stop himself.

000o000

Mr. Stark gets him a new phone. Peter manages to hold onto the same number, and watches as his notifications roll in. He looks at the ones from MJ and Ned—he's been here for eight days apparently—and then finally opens the ones from Mr. Stark. None of them are mission calls. The first one starts after his "migraine" and it's asking if Peter needs a chaperone.

Then if he's injured.

Later it's asking how he is. Then asking for a response. Then worry. Then asking for a returned answer.

Happy is much the same. Grudgingly starting out with telling Peter that Mr. Stark wants an answer, then switching off to concern and worry. There's even a text from a number he privately suspects is Ms. Pott's.

He feels a little guilty about ignoring the messages, but he just...couldn't.

According to Ned and MJ—still looking a little worse for wear, but considerably better than the last time he saw her—Peter passed out, then Flash dragged him to the nurses office, and she'd called May. But May was in the middle of an appointment and wasn't available, so the next person on his contacts list _was_ Mr. Stark. Peter doesn't know a lot of adults. It didn't really surprise him. (Well it did, because May would have had to agree to it, and she just...doesn't strike him as being all for that.)

But then Mr. Stark showed up at the school, took him, clambered into the car and no one's seen him since. Ned tells him that half the school is convinced he was kidnapped. The other half is pretty sure he's dead.

Not great odds.

Peter's stomach churns at the thought of all the school work he missed, but he was in a freakin' _coma_ and the teachers—minus stupid Mrs. Bennet—ought to have some leniency, right?

May laughs when he tells her that, and when he asks why, she says that he got a A+ on his test, even though his body was literally shutting down. Peter tries to understand why that's funny, until he realizes this is _Mrs. Bennet_. Peter passed it with only one-third of his brain functioning. He didn't need to study as hard as he did.

It _is_ kinda funny after a little bit. When he functions on more than eighty percent, he thinks he does worse.

Not that he would recommended one-third.

It's...yeah. Not great. Exhaustion.

Approval that nearly kills.

Peter slips off to sleep. It's dreamless. The doctors say when he's feeling better, the dreams—nightmares—will come back, but for now, his sleep is empty. It's an escape to the void.

000o000

When Peter gets out of the hospital—Stark Medical, in the Avengers Compound—things are a little—lot—different. Going back to school disproves everyone's theories, but new ones spawn as to why he was in a coma. Peter doesn't really care. Let them talk. Not his problem.

He gets extensions from his teachers for the projects that he missed, and juggles trying to do make-up work on top of recover. It kinda sucks, but kinda sucking has been Peter's life since Ben died. So yeah. He's used to it.

Tony never calls him on missions, unless backup is true and wholly needed.

When he texts him, now its normally to ask him how he is. What he's doing. Normal conversion. Friends, not boss to employee. It's...nice. It consistently shows him Mr. Stark's human side. It's weird, but Peter is not going to complain. Ever.

Peter eases up on patrols, and true to Mr. Stark's word, any injury is reported to him. It makes things a little easier, when he doesn't have to take a knife to himself in the bathroom to get out a bullet, or stitch up everything.

A few months after the hospital, on one of the last weeks of school, he, MJ, and Ned are picking through food. Peter's chewing through an apple and talking about what he and Tony did in the lab last weekend when Ned suddenly stops him with "Dude, he's like your dad now."

Peter sputters, nearly spitting apple out all over the table.

Ned looks thoughtful, "Actually, maybe he always has been. I mean, you _did_ almost die to make him proud. That's pretty son to dad-ish."

Peter flicks an apple seed at his face. "Ned. Stop. Seriously." His face is red, he's sure of it. MJ is snickering quietly, but has obviously taken Ned's side, the traitor. "That's not…" he tries to protest. But it is true, in a way, Peter realizes. He closes his eyes. "Fine. You win."

Peter's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, still scowling at MJ and Ned who are laughing. The notification is a next, from Tony, answering Peter's earlier question on if he can pick him up after school.

_Yep. Be there._

Peter lets his hand relax, and puts his phone back in his pocket, no longer dreading the feeling of it buzzing against his side.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/galaxythreads)


End file.
